My name is Madara.
Yes, that Madara—but not the one you're thinking of. I wasn't born into a clan of elite warriors. I didn't awaken my Sharingan at the age of eight. I didn't fight in a hundred battles, or forge a shinobi village with my bare hands.
I was just a guy. A regular Japanese salaryman.
Boring, right?
I worked in a mid-sized office in Shinjuku, spent my days replying to emails and nodding through meetings, and spent my nights either watching anime or falling asleep halfway through a book. My name, Madara, was a joke—ever since high school, people asked me if my parents were Naruto fans. They weren't. Just some weird coincidence.
Anyway, life was... average. Not bad. Not great. Just there.
Until I died.
Like any cliché isekai setup, it was raining that evening. I was walking home late from work, umbrella in one hand, a convenience store bag in the other. I'd just gotten my favorite instant curry and a beer. My phone buzzed—probably spam. I looked down for a second, maybe two.
Then came the headlights.
A truck, horn blaring. My legs froze, my mouth opened, but no sound came out. The world exploded in metal and pain—and then—
Nothing.
I didn't expect an afterlife. I didn't expect reincarnation. Honestly, I expected black. Void. Peace.
Instead, I woke up choking on blood.
I was lying on stone—cold, ancient stone—and my entire body felt like it had been through a war. My hands were shaking. My breath ragged. The air was heavy, almost alive with chakra.
"...Madara-sama... are you alright?"
The voice was deep, cautious. Reverent.
I blinked. Sat up. My limbs moved like they belonged to someone else. Heavier. Stronger. I looked down—
Armor. Crimson, battle-worn. My fingers were calloused, too long, too elegant to be mine. My hair—when I reached up—was thick and fell over my shoulders.
And then there were the eyes.
There's no way to describe the sensation of activating the Sharingan when you're not from this world. It wasn't like flipping a switch. It was like waking up a predator inside you—one that could see everything. Chakra. Movement. Emotion.
I staggered to my feet and looked at the man who'd called out to me. He wore the Uchiha crest. His face was both respectful and concerned.
"Lord Madara," he repeated. "Do you need assistance?"
That was when it hit me.
I wasn't just a Madara anymore.
I was Uchiha Madara—co-founder of Konohagakure. Leader of the Uchiha. The man history would remember as both a legend... and a threat.
And the worst part?
I knew how his story ended.
I didn't ask for this. I wasn't some genius strategist or battle-hardened warrior. I was an overworked salaryman with a decent knowledge of Naruto lore and a tendency to overthink everything.
Now, I was at the heart of one of the most volatile periods in shinobi history.
The village was newly formed. The Uchiha were mistrusted. Hashirama still called me "brother," but I could already feel the cracks forming beneath the surface. And me?
I was in the body of the man destined to break it all.
So what do I do? Follow the script? Play the villain? Let the world burn?
No.
If fate dragged me into this body, then I'll drag fate right back by the throat.
I'm Madara Uchiha now… but this time, things will be different.